Chrissie
by chicketieboo
Summary: what was christain and satine like before they met eachother
1. first

Disclaimer: the characters of Moulin rouge are not mine, though I wish they were, I would so love to live that over and over again. That would be the best, except for the sadness, * tear * isn't Ewan McGregor adorable? Where was I? Oh yes, none of these characters are mine; they all belong to twentieth century fox. All except Christian's mother, whom they never spoke of.  
  
  
  
  
  
I live here at the Moulin rouge. It is my home, my life, and my prison. I can't remember anything but this; like a bad dream with no end or beginning. I don't allow myself to feel, to care, to love. I have friends, and ones I am fond of, but that's as far as a courtesan can go.  
A courtesan.  
A prostitute.  
A whore.  
  
I sell my love to men with the right amount of money, the more they have the more I care. It's never gentle, never real.  
  
Until Christian. He came into my life here with the talent of a famous writer and the wealth of a true bohemian child.  
  
He wasn't always like that. He had told me of the wealth. Of the parties and jewels. And how all of it meant nothing to him. He left home to escape the responsibility that came with it all. And most of all; his father.   
  
He never told me his father's name, nor his mother's; he only referred to them as mother and father. I assumed he had no siblings, for he never spoke of them.   
  
He told me of his mother dying at an early age, when he was only a boy, and the way his life changed. She had encouraged and nurtured his artistic abilities, buying the typewriter he carried everywhere with him. That damn typewriter. At first when we first started, he'd make love to me, and as though that were inspiration. Afterwards, when he thought I might be asleep, he would go and type another scene into his play.   
  
Me never being a good sleeper wouldn't stand it. I couldn't sleep at all. Then it grew on me, until I couldn't sleep unless he did go and type.  
  
Where was I? Oh yes his mother. He loved her so. He told me she would of loved me, I told him no mother could ever love a courtesan. I never told him that again after the look I got the first time I said it.  
  
After his mother died his father finally had no one to stand in his way when it came to hurting Christian. Physically? No, Christian never once spoke of his father hitting him. Only, mentally and verbally assaulting him...  
  
Well...it's best to start from the beginning, like he told me. 


	2. second

"Christian! What DO you think your doing?" father bellowed when he entered the room.  
  
"Oh leave him alone father, he's just reading, that's all he was, I told him he could go into your library and pick out a new book" mother said stopping father from glaring down at me.  
"Oh why do you protect him missy? Seriously one day the boy will have to get his head out of the clouds and face up to the harsh realities of life!" his father began.  
  
"And one day he will, but now, let him be, he's only 8" mother said gently.  
  
"Sorry, father, for entering your private study" I began, hoping to win some sort of affectionate tone.  
  
"Just go Christian, and let me be."  
  
~ * * * ~  
  
That was the first thing that Christian told me. It happened the first time we made love. We were lying there, and he was stroking my arm. I had asked him where he became so enthralled with writing. And he explained his mother was the one who taught him and saved him from the wrath of his father.  
  
~ * * * ~  
  
"Christian, wake up sweetheart, guess what day it is?" mother said shaking me out of a wonderful dream.  
  
"An officially declared holiday where we all sleep in really, really late?" I said groaning.  
  
"Nice try Chrissie, it's your birthday!" she said pulling the covers off.  
  
"Mom, I told you to stop calling me Chrissie now, I'm nine years old"  
  
"Ten today Chrissie...I mean Christian" she said giggling.  
  
"Missy!!" I heard my father call.  
  
"got to go sweetheart you really need to get up"  
she started to walk away, but I had needed to ask her something before she went and tended to father.  
  
"mother? Why does dad call you missy? It's not your name, nor is it anything near a shortening of one of your names"  
  
"because sweetheart, it's something your father does to show his affection towards me, it's his pet name for me and even when he is as gruff as he is, he is showing how much he loves me, as I show with you calling you Chrissie"  
  
I watched her walk out and close the door. With her comment I realized how my father had never called me Chrissie, only mother. I yawned and ran my hand through my hair. I got off the bed and waled towards my dresser to begin to get dressed. It was the mirror above my dresser that revealed my mothers secret.  
  
I had looked in it to find exactly across from it, a brand new typewriter, the kind the real writers used. It had a big blue bow on it. 


	3. third

Christian said that was the only beautiful gift anyone had ever bought him. His mother's one extravagance his father allowed into the house.  
  
~ * * * ~  
  
"Christian!!!" I heard father screaming at the bottom of the stairs. I stopped my typing and ran to the top, I was so please with the last chapter of the novelette I was writing for mother that I had a sincere smile on my face.  
  
"Yes father?" I called down with that smile.  
  
"Quit that incisive typing boy and get down here, wipe that smile off your face you look like a peasant child!" my father bellowed.  
  
I slowly walked down the stairs to where my father was standing. He looked grimmer then usual and wasn't quite pleased with anything.  
  
Something in his face got to me, I began to feel the panic at the back of my mind.  
  
"Where is mother, father? Where is my baby brother or sister?" Christian asked looking up into his father's eyes.  
  
"Christian, there is to be no new baby, you had a little sister, Annie, she died shortly after your mother." he said with a crude tone.  
  
It took Christian a minute to realize what his father said; it was hard enough knowing he lost a little sister, only to realize his only love, his mother, was gone as well. Bile rose into the back of his throat, the room began to sway, he again looked up at his father, only to find no love or compassion there.  
  
"Pull yourself together boy, we will have to start making plans right away, your mother's body needs the right preparations."  
  
~ * * * ~  
  
As Christian told me the fate of his unborn sister and mother, I wept. I wept for him and those dead souls, and only knew how deeply his father's cold reaction stung him. I wept, because Christian couldn't  
  
~ * * * ~  
  
The funeral took place on a Wednesday afternoon. It was a sunny warm day, without a cloud in the sky, just the kind mother liked. A very rare day in London. Looking down at her coffin I realized that she did that. She made the day so beautiful just for me; because it was one special thing we shared, love for beauty. I dared to allow one tear to slip as a place the white lily on my mother's coffin, and slowly walked around to my sisters. Annie. Poor dear little Annie. Never would I know the love and pride of having her for a sister. It tore away at me to know this. 


End file.
